


Sherlock Ficlets and Drabbles (aka the twiddle diddle fic)

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anniversary, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Childhood Memories, Crack, Depressed John, Divorce, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Happy John, Happy Sherlock, Infidelity, John is sterile, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Memories, Modern BBC Sherlock, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock is a good son, Sledding, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Twiddle diddles, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian gay slang, chickenpox, christmas ficlet, house arrest, implied breathplay, painful Christmas memories, peppermint schnapps, watson baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Sherlock ficlets and drabbles I've posted on Tumblr. </p><p>I am having a hard time finishing longer fics right now due to RL getting in the way, but I can manage a ficlet or drabble. Hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them.</p><p>Each 'chapter' is a separate ficlet/drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victorian Husbands

“Watson, you simply must try these most excellent chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought up while you were out.” Holmes held out the plate of sphere-shaped sweets toward Watson, who eagerly took one.

Watson took a healthy bite. “You are most right, Holmes. This is delicious.” He finished off the delicate treat and reached for another. “By chance, did Mrs. Hudson tell you the name of this new recipe?”

“Twiddle diddles,” Holmes replied.

Watson choked on his mouthful of biscuit, inhaling crumbs and proceeding to a full blown coughing fit.

Holmes sprang from his chair to aid his distressed partner. He beat Watson vigorously on the back, gripping his shoulder to bend Watson forward. After a truly awful few moments of gasping and coughing, Watson sat up and looked at Holmes through streaming eyes, face red and expression pained.

“My good man, did you just say…” Watson’s declaration was interrupted by another bout of coughing. “Twiddle diddles?”

Holmes wrinkled his brow and replied. “Yes, that’s what Mrs. Hudson mentioned. She was chattering on as is her wont, and I, of course, kept my mind occupied on other matters, paying her only peripheral attention, as is my habit. But she most definitely called out the name ‘twiddle diddles’.”

Watson rose and took Holmes’ face into his two hands. He smiled brilliantly then pulled his partner down for a quick kiss, laughing against Holmes’ plump pink mouth. “Holmes - Sherlock - you are most spectacularly ignorant of current terms used by men such as us.” He gave Holmes’ cheekbone a quick peck and released him, lest their landlady catch them in their tender embrace. “And it’s quite adorable.”

Brow furrowed even more deeply, Holmes cried out in an offended voice, “Spectacularly ignorant!?”

Still shaking with mirth, Watson pulled Holmes’ ear level with his own mouth and whispered an explanation.

Holmes stood bolt upright in shock, the confused expression on his face causing Watson’s mirth to increase. Holmes sputtered, “But she … we’re careful … how could …”

Watson reached up to caress Holmes’ smooth-shaven jaw. “Don’t give it a care, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson had quite a scarlet-tinted past. Our secret is safe with her. Now pass over another twiddle diddle. I find them most appealing.“


	2. Changes

Sherlock doesn’t change much after things are finally settled with John. He still stays up all night, insults people, eats too little and smokes to much. There’s only one change - and John cherishes it.

Sherlock smiles. Genuine, wide, eyes-involed smiles. A lot.

Because Sherlock had always had the habit of fake-smiling often, most people don’t notice. But John does.

Sherlock does, too, and even tries to stifle these smiles when they overtake him, but he’s unable to control the paroxysm of happiness that reconfigures his facial muscles.

Mycroft notices, of course. First he notices that his brother often displays a sucking-a-lemon expression, the middle of his lips turning upward while the corners of his mouth turn down. After observing for a few weeks, Mycroft deduces that Sherlock is actually trying to stiffle smiles. He takes his brother aside and advises him to let it out, that he’s waited long enough to be happy so go ahead and indulge. After all, if Sherlock chooses to get involved, he might as well jump in with both feet.

So he does. Sherlock stops trying to suppress his expressions of happiness. He notices that the more he lets go and shows his joy, the younger John looks. The deep lines that grief, sorrow and stress had carved in John’s face start to relax. Shadows that seemed a permanent fixture in the dark depths of John’s eyes ease. And John smiles more, too


	3. Anniversary

John and Sherlock never celebrate an anniversary. Sherlock thinks it’s a stupid societal custom intended to force people to patronize expensive restaurants and florists. John can’t decide which date would constitute their anniversary.

Would it be the date they met in the lab? The date John moved his things into Baker Street? The date he moved back after the Mary incident? The date Mycroft delivered John’s divorce decree? The date John closed the gap that had always yawned between them, and pulled Sherlock down for their first kiss? Or the date John finally moved his things downstairs into Sherlock’s bedroom?

It doesnt matter to either of them - those things are hard for both of them to express. Not having to mark a red-letter day on the calendar is a relief to both men.

To John, every shared breakfast is a celebration of all those dates. Every time they brush their teeth side-by-side at the bathroom sink. Every time Sherlock shyly takes his hand in the backseat of a cab and hides their handclasp under a fold of his coat. (They’re both still reticent about public displays of affection.)

To Sherlock, every day with John in it is a miracle. He doesn’t need a date to celebrate their relationship or the pressure of having to pick out a gift and plan a special day. Every day has been special since the Army doctor limped into St Bart’s lab and turned his world on its head.


	4. Things Not As They Seem

“What’s that in your hair?” John reached up and casually picked at a spot of a white substance in one of Sherlock’s curls. “It’s dried in. Christ, Sherlock, it’s really stuck. What is this?”

Sherlock ducked his head and made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. John continued to pick at the offending substance, pulling at a dark ringlet on the side of Sherlock’s head.

“Sit down and let me get at this properly.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’ll get it later.”

“Sherlock, what the hell. Sit down. Let me get a wet flannel and get this mess out of your hair.”

Sherlock’s face turned pink. “Forget it, John. It’s not a big deal.” He averted his eyes from John’s questioning gaze.

“Why can’t you tell me what this is, Sherlock?”

“It’s … personal”

Several expressions fought for dominance on John’s face at one. The result was quite comical - if Sherlock had been looking. “Oh, ummm. I’ll just …” John sputtered as he backed out of the living room, toward the stairs.

Realization dawned on Sherlock’s face and he nearly shouted, “No! John, its not … that.”

Face an embarrassed crimson, John turned once again to face his flatmate. “Then what is it?”

Sherlock looked toward the ceiling for a few moments, a bashful expression lighting his features. “I painted the downstairs powder room for my mother this morning. Obviously some paint dripped onto my hair.”

John’s torso shook with suppressed laughter. “You painted. For your parents. And you call that personal?”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly contribute credence to my image.”

“You tit.” John affectionately tugged at the dried paint in Sherlock’s hair. “You’re just afraid someone will find out you’re human after all.”


	5. Just Breathe

Sherlock holds his breath. A lot. John begins to notice little gaps-in-breathing in his partner more and more. Not wanting to be too intrusive, but concerned that Sherlock may have an undiagnosed medical condition causing his system to misfire, John brings it up casually over breakfast one morning.

Sherlock responds with, “Breathing is boring,” just as John expected he would, so John continues to observe his partner closely.

The pattern becomes clear to John after a few days. Sherlock holds his breath when he’s concentrating very hard. Not for normal Mind Palace storage and retrieval - breath-holding is reserved for seriously hard thinking. It soothes John’s concerns when he makes the connection. He knows there’s nothing medically the matter - it’s simply Sherlock’s way of cutting out every distraction. That includes the sound of his own breath in his nose and the sensation of his chest rising and falling. It’s Sherlock’s way of going very, very still.

John gets a dark, wicked idea from Sherlock’s concentration mechanism.

And Sherlock loves it, simply loves it, when John tries out his idea that night, in their big bed, in the dark.


	6. Infidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by beautiful art by lunadax.tumblr.com  
> [lunadax gorgeous art](https://40.media.tumblr.com/0dbc7c19e3d514464f214785c5c2e707/tumblr_ntayzwvGCX1su7exgo3_540.jpg)
> 
> Used with permission of the artist.

_"He could not believe he was finally here, in his arms, after all these years."_ ~lunadex 

 

All the years he’d hoped, and longed and wanted. Just wanted, _wanted_ , so badly.

And if those arms were pledged to hold another? Well, that was just a formality, a piece of paper and a few words spoken in front of a priest. It didn’t mean anything, didn’t _matter_ , Sherlock was sure. John didn’t feel anything for her, not any more.

John had come to him, started it all, lunged up and pulled him down into a passionate kiss, mouths crushed together almost cruelly. He’d pulled at his clothes, ripped buttonholes, desperate to feel skin-to-skin.

John wanted him - _him_ \- not anyone else. Finally. After so many years of long glances, innuendo, almost-taken chances, missed opportunities. John wanted him.

Then why didn’t John remove the gold band that glinted in the dim light?

Why did the cool metal seem to burn where it grazed Sherlock’s skin?


	7. First

John’s never felt anything like it in his life. He’s wanted before, he’s lusted, he’s walked so close to the edge he thought he’d combust. But those times were all with soft, yielding, plump-in-all-the-right-places women. All of them.

He’s wanted before, a man, but that’s as far as it ever got. Glances, longing, wanting, unsatisfied.

But now - now. Now Sherlock is angles and planes and firm and hard, arms and legs fuzzed with wiry hair, jaw rough with five o'clock stubble, fingers bony, limbs ropy. And it’s glorious, the brand-new sensations under his palms, against his limbs, his belly. Deep-voiced sighs to match his own. Large hands on him, large mouth around him - god, everything about Sherlock is so big.

He’s going to shake apart - and he can. John doesn’t have to be the one to lead, direct. He can take -and give, secure in the knowing that Sherlock will get off either way. The relief, the knowing; he giggle-sighs at the thought. Sherlock hums in reply and rolls them iover. John on top. 

Kissing, licking, hands roaming. Rutting, sliding against Sherlock’s hardness. The sensations - new - curl his toes.


	8. Smut Sunday

“Care for a blow job?”

John sputters and drops the newspaper he was reading. “What did…”

“Sundays are so dreadfully dull. I thought it might help pass the time.”

Flushed, John looks up at Sherlock looming above him. “Don’t joke like that, Sherlock.”

“No! I wasn’t joking. Do you want a blow job?’”

“What man would say no to that offer?” John sat forward, preparing to unbuckle his belt.

Sherlock dropped a newspaper into John’s lap. “Good. There’s a glass blowing class that meets on Sundays. They’re looking for an assistant. I knew you’d be interested so I circled the advert. Thought you could use the extra income.”


	9. Advent Hope

Sherlock had never been fond of the Christmas season and it lost any thrill for John after the disastrous Christmas day when Sherlock killed a man for him. (Not that he’d planned it that way. At least Sherlock wasn’t a premeditated murderer.)

And now that things were settled, and they were both back home at Baker Street, both men faced Advent with dread.

John tried to cope by going to church - secretly; he didn’t want Sherlock poking fun of him for ‘ridiculous observance of a man made excuse for extra charity donations.’ He did feel a bit better singing Come O Come Emanuel. Watching the children light the Hope candle in the advent wreath did make him feel a little hopeful.

He hadn’t lied to Sherlock about where he was going - just said he was going out.

Sherlock didn’t follow John. Really - he didn’t. He just happened to walk the same direction that John had taken when John said he was going out. And if Sherlock just happened to pause in a church portico to listen to the congregation sing Come O Come Emanuel - well, it certainly wasn’t because John’s voice blended among those of strangers. And if Sherlock hesitantly edged into the back of the sanctuary - well, it was cold in the vestibule after all.

But all pretense dropped when the children lit the first purple candle in the Advent wreath, and their mother read a passage about the Hope it symbolized.

John happened to glance around and catch the eye of a tall, pale onlooker standing in the back. And Sherlock happened to pause and glance around at just the right moment.

And afterward, walking home together, neither mentioned how they’d come to be in the same place, at the same time, on the first Sunday of Advent, when they both hated the Christmas season. They really didn’t say much at all.

But they both felt a little hopeful for the Christmas to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a lovely rendition of O Come O Come Emmanuel:
> 
>  
> 
> [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xtpJ4Q_Q-4](link%20)


	10. Peppermint

“Peppermint schnapps? Isn’t that a little … juvenile?”

John continues calmly putting away the groceries he’d stopped for after work. Sherlock rifles through bags, commenting on nearly everything. “You could go to the supermarket yourself, you know. Liquor store, too. Nothing holding you back.”

Sherlock straightens, with his patented ‘I’m-highly-offended’ look. Before he can bluster out a response, John continues. “I have good memories of peppermint schnapps. It’s the first alcohol I ever had - Harry too, but that didn’t turn out so well, did it? At Christmas my mum would make hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps. She’d put whipped cream on top and crush up peppermint candies, sprinkle it on top. My grandparents and aunts and uncles loved it. And for the kids - Harry, the cousins, me - she’d make some up in special Christmas mugs with just a teaspoon of schnapps, and extra candy on top.”

Sherlock had taken a seat at the kitchen table while John spoke. He sat forward when John fell silent, an eager expression on his face. “Go on.”

“That’s it. That’s the story.”

“Surely there’s more. Surely you had a drunken backseat experience with a girl who tasted like peppermint schnapps?”

John laughed. “No, those experiences were always beer-based.”

“So your good memories of peppermint schnapps are based solely on Christmas?”

John nodded.

“But you hate Christmas.”

“I didn’t then, when I was a kid.”

Sherlock remained silent; his chest ached a little at John’s sad expression. Of course John hadn’t hated Christmas as a child. That dislike came out of adult experiences - lonely Christmases in a hastily-constructed Army base in the Middle East, Christmas at Baker Street with a forgettable girlfriend, grief filled Christmas in a lonley flat thinking his best friend was dead, and Christmas of lies, deceit and murder. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John spoke first.

“I wanted to. You know, maybe revive a good Christmas memory. Try it again, here, with you.”

John looked simultaneously hopeful and broken, and it made Sherlock’s lungs feel to small. He finally took a breath and said softly, “I didn’t see any heavy cream in the bags.”

John let out an annoyed laugh. “Yeah. I remembered the liquor, candy and cocoa but forgot that ingredient.”

Sherlock sprang up and grabbed his coat. “You crush the candy. I’ll be right back.”


	11. Blue Christmas

Things didn’t change much when John and Sherlock were finally both back home at Baker Street, all loose ends settled. They still bickered, there were still papers strewn across every horizontal surface, they still had their own bedrooms (although Sherlock slept upstairs in John’s on the nights he did sleep), and Sherlock still disappeared for days without telling John his plans.

They were middle aged men, after all. Both as set in their ways as treestumps.

They didn’t hold hands, or walk arm in arm, or kiss in public. Even Mrs. Hudson sometimes wondered if they were truly together because she didn’t see a noticeable difference in their behaviors when she popped up with baked treats.

Since most people see very little and observe even less, the people around them missed the signs (except Mycroft, of course).

The lines around John’s mouth softened. His lips appeared minutely fuller because tension in his facial muscles eased. The whites of Sherlock’s eyes were brighter, because he was getting more sleep (more sleep meant more time touching John so Sherlock was wholeheartedly in favor of it). Both men held their shoulders in a more relaxed pose.

But the biggest change was Christmas.

Whereas before, they’d indulged Mrs. Hudson and hosted Christmas Eve gatherings, and visited Sherlock’s parents for a Christmas family gathering, now they preferred to spend both the eve and the day on Christmas alone. Just the two of them at home, all of 221 Baker Street to themselves since Mrs. Hudson visited her sister for Christmas.

Christmas held painful memories for the two partners; the forced gaiety of Holiday gatherings was too much for to endure. So they made a mutual decision to ignore the Holiday season.

John bought an extra carton of milk and supplies to make shrimp scampi. Sherlock brought home a bottle of good Chabli as an accompaniment.

They had dinner then spent the evening reading by the fire and not talking about the painful memories that seemed to hang in the air like ghosts of Christmas past.

But later, in John’s bed, they did finally acknowledge the painful past. And the comfort they shared went a long way toward healing it and restoring Christmas cheer.

They agreed to check in with each other each December. Perhaps one or both will change their mind and want to engage in the Holiday season. Perhaps not. Either way, they will always have each other. Always.


	12. Humbug

While he was sitting in his chair, his mind was far, far away. Sherlock could tell from the way the creases in John’s forehead deepened and the way his bad shoulder sloped that John wasn’t lost in a good memory. No, not good at all; the way John’s left thumb rhythmically stroked his right palm told Sherlock the memory was indeed dark. He moved to crouch in front of John’s chair, looking up into his closed-off face.

“John?”

John snapped back from wherever he’d been. He gave Sherlock a small, sad smile and laid a hand on his cheek.

“Hello,” John murmured softly.

Sherlock slowly slid his way into John’s lap, his long legs wrapped over the arm of the chair. He fitted his forehead into the space where John’s neck met his shoulder. “Care to tell me about it?”

John sighed and wrapped both arms around Sherlock, in whose weight and warmth he found comfort.

“When I was five, my family visited a cousin’s farm for Christmas. I don’t even know where we were. Somewhere out in the countryside with gentle hills. It snowed quite a bit.”

Sherlock stroked John’s neck.

“We went sledding, all the kids. The adults came, too. The sledding hill was in a cow pasture but the cattle were all in the barn. A frozen creek curved around the base of the hill. We'd hit the creek after coming down the hill and slide for what seemed like forever.”

This part of the story was a good memory; Sherlock could feel how the tension in John’s chest eased as he remembered the sledding party.

“Someone built a bonfire. We stayed out for hours. I was too little to slide down the hill alone but my parents, Harry, my other relatives took turns taking me. And afterwards we had hot cocoa in the big farmhouse kitchen while our fingers and toes thawed.”

John was silent for a long time. Finally Sherlock prompted softly, “And then?”

“And then we came home, and the next day my father was gone. Seemed he and my mum agreed to give Harry and me one last family Christmas. Dad left the next day. They got divorced, he moved in with the other woman. We never went back to the farm. And…” John stopped, breath ragged.

Sherlock remained silent but squeezed John a little tighter. After a bit John’s breathing evened out. “And I’ve really not liked Christmas ever since.”

Sherlock lifted his head to meet John’s eyes. “You never said.”

John glanced from Sherlock to the box of Christmas decorations Mrs. Hudson had brought up that morning. “I know. It seems so. So mean spirited to be a humbug when everyone else is happy with the holiday spirit.”

Sherlock gave John’s neck a last soothing caress then rose quickly and picked up the box. He turned toward the door without another word.

John heard him thundering down the staircase.

And John smiled.


	13. Ghost of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry but I can't stop thinking that Christmas is the anniversary of the Magnuson fiasco. 
> 
> I'll try to write a happy Christmas ficlet tomorrow. Until then - here's this.

Sherlock was in a funk and John tried to cheer him up by leaning over his curled-up form on the sofa to kiss his forehead and gaily exclaim, “Cheer up, Sherlock! It’s almost Christmas!”

Then it hit John. He sucked in a breath like he’d been punched in the gut, followed by a soft “oh.” He slowly lowered himself to sit on the floor beside the sofa and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s back. He didn’t say anything - speaking without thinking got him to this point, so he considered carefully what he wanted to say.

“I never thanked you,” he finally said. His voice was low but he was sure Sherlock was listening. “You said you did for Mary. But I know. You did it for me.” John paused, and when Sherlock didn’t respond, he concluded, “So thank you.”

John reached his hand along the length of the sofa and laid it on Sherlock’s ankle, over the monitor that has been firmly attached there for a year, ever since Mycroft’s deal concluded. It was the best they could hope for and Mycroft paid for the deal with blows to his career. He was still an important man, still an unseen mastermind in many government affairs, but he longer was the embodiment of British government. 

Sherlock carefully turned until he faced John, his blue dressing tangled around his frame. John’s hand fell away as Sherlock rearranged his limbs. He regarded John for a few moments before he answered simply, “You’re welcome.” There was no reason to dissemble - it was true he’d killed a man in front of a dozen witness for the sake of John Watson’s happiness. 

Or so he’d thought at the time. Facts had proven otherwise, but Sherlock had not been privy to those plans at the time.

And now he was constrained by sentence to a quarter mile radius of 221 Baker Street, unable to visit crime scenes, unable to even travel to his parents’ home for Christmas. 

After a moment Sherlock spoke again. “Don’t be afraid to mention Christmas. It’s just another day to me.”

John gave a sad half-smile. “Yeah, just another day. Here at home.”

Sherlock’s hand dropped to John’s shoulder. He squeezed gently. “Another day. Here at home. With you.” Sherlock smiled. “That makes it okay.”


	14. Just this year

Mycroft had complained the loudest when Violet proposed doing Christmas dinner at home. “We never do Christmas,” he’d said, words dripping with sarcasm.

But Mummy had prevailed, and now not only were her sons coming home for Christmas, but Sherlock had invited three friends. Violet had always envisioned a house full of merry guests for the Holidays when her boys were little - handsome grown sons, wives and of course grandchildren. Life had turned out quite different than she’d imagined. She had the handsome grown sons, but no wives were in the plan - or husbands. It bothered Violet not one whit that her sons were gay, but she was concerned that they both had shut themselves off from any chance at love, or partners, or family. It seemed the Unfortunate Event with the other one had scarred them both for life.

Best to put away those gloomy thoughts! She had a turkey to baste, piecrust to crimp, potatoes to peel and she needed to lay a fire in the living room fireplace.

And Sherlock was bringing friends! That nice Dr. Watson who had taken such good care of him while Sherlock recovered from that ghastly gunshot wound. And Dr. Watson’s estranged wife. That seemed a little odd, but Violet supposed Sherlock had his reasons - and strongly suspected those reasons were to push them toward reconciliation. And a Mr. Wiggins. Violet didn’t recall ever hearing Sherlock talk about a Mr. Wiggins, but she was proud that Sherlock was kind enough to invite a friend who had no family to visit on Christmas.

Enough of these musings! Violet had gotten up early to make sure everything would be done on time. She wanted a perfect family Christmas this year. Even without grandchildren, it would be wonderful to have a house full of people.

It was time she got to work.


	15. Holiday brunch

“Must we do this?” Sherlock sighed.

“It’s either this, or invite her to your folks’ house for Christmas.” John’s tone was no more merry than Sherlock’s.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. “All right, then. Best get it over with quickly.”

John opened the door and held it for Sherlock. He’d chosen the restaurant because it was small, well lit, sure to be uncrowded even on a Sunday in December, and most importantly - it did not serve alcohol.

Harry was already seated in a booth. She waved at them from across the restaurant and John could see, even from the distance, that her hand was steady and eyes were clear. He breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Sherlock slid into the seat opposite Harry, which left John in the awkward position of having to choose who to crowd in beside: his sister or his flatmate? He silently damned Harry for choosing a booth instead of a table. In the end he settled beside Sherlock, mostly so that he could get a good look at his sister across the table.

And she looked good. Very different from the last time John had seen her. Along with clear eyes and steady hands, Harry sported a smart jacket and nicely tailored skirt in soft grey and a beautiful yellow cashmere scarf that flattered her golden brown hair and deep blue eyes.

“You’re looking well, Harry.” John’s tone betrayed his relief.

“I am,” Harry agreed. “Eleven months sober on Tuesday.”

“It agrees with you,” Sherlock drawled.

Harry laughed and nodded her thanks.

“And you, John? What have you been up to these many months? I haven’t seen you since last Christmas.”

John nodded his head sideways toward Sherlock. “He’s been quite ill. Gunshot wound, lots of internal damage. Between work and taking care of him, I’ve kept busy.”

“Your wife? Mary?”

Sherlock shot John a sharp glance. Rattled, it took John a moment to realize that Harry was asking about Mary, not pointing out that it had been Mary who pulled the trigger. He cleared his throat to fill his pause. “We’re.” He picked up his water glass and took a sip. “We’re living apart. Separated.”

Harry gave him a sympathetic look. “Aw, John, I’m sorry. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

John thought to himself that every word his sister spoke seemed to have a double meaning. “Yes. It does.”

Sherlock spoke at last. “John’s planning an attempt at reconciliation at Christmas.” He flicked his hand dismissively. “Holiday sentiment and all that will be on his side.”

“That’s wonderful, John. Maybe one Watson will finally make a go of a marriage.”

John stared daggers at Sherlock. “Yeah, maybe,” he answered without meeting Harry’s eyes.

She raised her water glass. “A toast. To happy marriage and happy Christmas.”

John winced and raised his glass. He looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock left his glass in its place on the table. “Sorry, can’t raise my arm that high. Gunshot wound, broken ribs mending, all of that. You know.”

Harry glanced from Sherlock to John, her glass still hovering in the air between them.

John touched his glass to hers. “Yeah, to that,” he muttered and took a quick sip. “Happy Christmas,“ he said quietly then kicked Sherlock’s shin below the table.


	16. Gift

They don’t exchange gifts at Christmas. They never had, first due to whatever disposable girlfriend John had been preoccupied with during the Holidays, then due to Sherlock’s ‘dead’ years, then the disastrous Magnusson/Mary Christmas. Neither of them wanted to think about the ghosts contained in memories of Christmases past.

That’s why Sherlock was shocked to silence when John presented him with a small box wrapped in green and red paper, tied with gold ribbon.

John blushed at Sherlock’s reaction and stuttered, “It’s, well…it’s noting, really. Just something I wanted to…”

Sherlock recovered his equilibrium and interrupted, “Thank you. I didn’t expect…”

“No, no, it’s nothing. Really.”

One long, white finger stroked the ribbon before hooking it and pulling it free. Sherlock eagerly tore the paper to find

A pack of Marlboros.

He glanced up to meet John’s eyes, expression puzzled.

“I thought. Well, I hound you about your smoking. And try to tell you when and where you can smoke. And I realized. It’s controlling, isn’t it? You’re an adult, you pay your share of the rent. You can outrun me without even breathing hard so it’s not ruining your health. So, I…”

Sherlock gave a lopsided grin and unwound the cellophane wrapping. He tapped the pack once on the table, hard, then flipped the lid open and slid one cigarette out. He placed it between his lips, still grinning, and fished in his trouser pocket for his lighter.

Lighter procured, he lit the tip and inhaled deeply.

His reply curled grey and soft in the air around them, “Thank you, John.“


	17. Christmas Jumpers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by beautiful art by reaperson.tumblr.com  
> [click for reaperson gorgeous art](https://41.media.tumblr.com/cfaf7900e5bccd5cfa09c0ae4eba461d/tumblr_mfklfdZ3tg1qjiwx5o1_540.jpg)
> 
> Used with permission of the artist.

“You love my Christmas jumper, admit it.”

“I hate your Christmas jumper. Get it off, quick.”

“Take it off me. I dare you.”

“The only place I’m going to like that jumper is in a heap on the floor.”

“Are you asking?”

“Are you offering?”

“Come here and kiss me, you tit.”


	18. John misunderstood

They’re middle aged men, so of course they have a hard time talking about things like this. They both detest it, really.

Sherlock brought it up just after John lit the logs in the fireplace and settled into his armchair with a book. “What do you think about getting married again?” Sherlock’s voice was neutral and partially muffled by the sofa arm he’d draped himself over.

“Married? Um, no. Didn’t work out so good for me, didn’t it? And I’m not one to make the same mistake twice. So no, it’ll be you and me the rest of my life, if I have my say.” John hadn’t even looked up from his book - he’d spoken his reply down into the pages of the paperback.

But at just the last split second, as the last syllable left his tongue, he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock, whose eyes had taken on a sheen and whose luscious lower wobbled just the slightest bit. Understanding hit John like a lightening bolt and he softly said, “oh,” as he dropped the book into his lap. “Did you mean … I didn’t mean … I just never thought …” John seemed unable to finish a coherent sentence.

Sherlock flopped to face the back of the sofa, flipping his dressing gown up and around his legs as he went.

John was out of his chair and on his knees by Sherlock’s side in a flash. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s hip and spoke softly. “I misunderstood, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I’d marry you any day. In a heartbeat.” He stood and pulled at Sherlock’s elbow. “In fact, lets do it. Now. Today. Go get dressed, let’s go get married.”

Sherlock turned at the waist to face John with an expression of shock. “Now?”

John pulled at Sherlock’s elbow again. “Yes, now. I’m going up to change. Get dressed and be ready to go in ten.”

 

Sherlock was dressed and waiting for John, groomed to the nines, in ten minutes. John had changed into his best suit, the navy blue double breasted one with narrow trousers he wore to weddings (and funerals, but let’s not think of that now). His starched white shirt gleamed and he’d knotted his burgundy tie with hints of gold in a double Windsor. And he’d used product on his hair. A lot of product. Sherlock swallowed audibly when John stepped into the room and took his hand. 

“Let’s do this,” John said. His eyes gleamed. “Let’s get married.”

A cab was waiting outside the door - Sherlock had called for one while John changed. They slid in side by side and were silent for several minutes. John finally took Sherlock’s hand. “Did you look up the requirements?”he asked. “Is there any kind of waiting period?”

Sherlock turned his head and searched John’s eyes before answering. “No, but if you’d rather wait, we can.”

John brought Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles softly. “Nope. Today is good for me. Just making sure we won’t have to wait.” 

Sherlock gave him a dazzling smile in response.  
iriswallpaper  
A black towncar idled at the kerb as the cab pulled up to the registry office. “Oh for god’s sake, how did Mycroft find us out? Did he bug our living room again?”

Sherlock grinned at John’s ire. “I called him. We’ll need witnesses.”

John’s mouth actually dropped open in shock. “You called your brother? Surely you could have thought of someone else.”

Sherlock unfolded himself out of the cab and flipped a 20 to the driver. “No one else who could have picked up Mrs. Hudson and still managed to arrive before us.” Sherlock turned and smiled broadly as Mycroft helped their dear landlady up from the back of the towncar. He strode toward them with John just a step behind.

“Oh my dears, I can hardly believe it. And couldn’t you have given me decent notice? I’d have bought a dress and a new hat.” Mrs. Hudson fussed at them as she drew first Sherlock and then John down to kiss their cheeks.

“No time like the present, Mrs. Hudson. You look lovely,” John replied. And she did, in her wine colored jersey wool suit with black pipping on the jacket and her small wine colored, narrow brimmed hat trimmed with black velvet band and a few black feathers.

Mycroft gave them a pained smile. “You’re actually going to go through with this?”

John took Sherlock’s hand and answered firmly. “Yes, no doubt about it. Lets stop wasting time here on the pavement. I want to marry this man before he changes his mind.” He turned toward the doors and hauled Sherlock along by the hand, trusting that Mycroft would escort Mrs. Hudson.

 

The ceremony took less than ten minutes. It was a slow day at the registry so there was no delay. The officiant asked if they’d like to add anything to the brief vows. They looked at each other. Sherlock shrugged, his body language telling John the decision was his. John said that the regular vows were good enough for them - the less fuss, the better.

John spoke his vows first in a voice that was strong and clear. And when Sherlock spoke his, to John’s amazement, his voice shook and eyes misted. John clasped Sherlock’s hands and squeezed and Sherlock calmed down enough to get through the brief sentences.

They signed the certificate then Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson signed as witnesses - and they were officially married. Sherlock had assumed there’s be no kiss but John pulled him down for a brief meeting of lips then clasped him into a long, tight hug. Mrs. Hudson tittered ‘oh you boys" and dabbed her eyes and Mycroft gave them a genuine smile along with handshakes.

The four shared a meal at Mycroft’s expense then they headed back to Baker Street. When John closed the door to the flat behind them and turned the lock, they dissolved into a fit of giggles. Sherlock pulled John to him and looked down into his face with such an open, unguarded expression that it was John’s eyes turn to mist.

“I can’t believe we did it. We woke up this morning single and now we’re married,” John murmured as he clasped Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock’s lip wobbled in reply so he bent to kiss his husband to steady it.


	19. Chickenpox

John’s mum had done everything she could to make sure her son caught Chicken Pox before he turned seven. As neighborhood children broke out in the rash, she arranged play dates. But no matter how many times John played with his feverish friends, even sharing drinking cups when his mom grew more desperate, he never came down with the childhood disease. When Harriet started scratching, Mum had John sleep in her bed - that didn’t work, since even as young children, they never got on. They spent a few nights hugging opposite sides of the mattress and ignoring each other.

The pediatrician told John’s mum he was one of the lucky few that had a natural immunity to the varicella virus. Mum smiled, thinking g how lucky her son was not to have to endure ten days of itchy scabs and oatmeal baths.

The Chickenpox vaccine was brand new when John joined the Army, too new for the Army to make it part of the standard inoculations given to new recruits. John never thought much of it, having been assured by his Mum that he would never catch Chickenpox.

John attributed the slight fever he began to feel just after arriving in Helmand Province to dehydration. He’d been so busy patching up soldiers enough to transfer them to Royal Army hospital back home that he rarely had time to worry about his water intake.

He woke up flushed and feverish the next morning, too weak to even get out of bed. As a Captain, he had his own CHU. While living in his own container housing unit was usually a plus, when sick, it had the drawback of not having anyone to check on him. Too weak to get up and find his mobile, John thrashed in fever-dreams until he missed his scheduled shift. His CO sent a sergeant to check on him, who promptly arranged a bed for John in the hospital he was meant to be staffing.

Blood tests confirmed that John suffered from varicella zoster infection - Chickenpox. Other than quickly transferring John to an isolation room and making him as comfortable as possible, there was nothing the doctors could do. The only antiviral available at the base hospital was Tamiflu, which did not treat varicella zoster infection.

On the third day, John began to feel a swelling in his bollocks. By night the pain was unbearable and John’s doctors stood by helpless while John’s body fought the rare complication of adult Chickenpox: testicular infection.

Those days in hospital were not something John liked to think back on. He only disclosed the information to his personal physician and no one else. John had never considered having children anyway, so he viewed the fact that he was left sterile from the rare complication as a plus, not a minus. He still insisted on condoms, even when the women he slept with wanted to skip protection. He’d seen enough complications of various STIs during medical school that he wasn’t willing to take risks. And if the women thought the condoms were for birth control, John didn’t correct them. His wife had told him plainly on an early date ‘kids aren’t my thing.’ Being a private sort, John hadn’t shared with her that kids with him were an impossibility. It didn’t seem a big issue since the charming blonde didn’t want children.

That’s why John was shocked and appalled when Sherlock revealed to him - during his wedding reception - that his wife was pregnant.

Pregnant! John had seen spontaneous healings. Impossible to believe, miraculous healing g of irreversible medical conditions. It wasn’t only faith healers who could cause patients to throw away their crutches and walk again. He’d seen patients on their deathbeds spontaneously go into remission and live many healthy years.

His own experiences with unexplained healing gave John hope that his body had somehow healed itself. But he wasn’t a fool. The first thing he did when he returned to work after the honeymoon was order fertility tests on his own semen.

When he got the results, John was devastated. It was a certain impossiblility for the baby his wife carried to be his. While he’d seen miracle healing, John didn’t believe in true miracles - and it would have been a miracle for him to get his wife pregnant.

Keeping the news to himself, John spiraled into depression. He began avoiding his wife, cycling to work to avoid having to talk to her in the car. After work he mostly lay on the sofa, staring at the telly, not even noticing what was on.

He avoided answering his phone, especially when his best friend called. Surely Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in England, would deduce what was wrong. It was easier to just drift along than to try to reason out what to do about the problem.


	20. Scruff

John loves it when Sherlock neglects to shave for a few days. He loves feeling the drag of Sherlock’s scruffy beard against his face, his neck, his belly. It makes him feel manly - unmistakable that he’s loved by the cleverest man in Britain.

Sherlock shaves with some ridiculously expensive single-blade razor that’s imported from a country John can’t even find on a map. It leaves Sherlock’s skin baby-soft, which is wonderful. John loves caressing Sherlock’s just-shaved face, peppering it with kisses and laughing into Sherlock’s soft skin.

But the three-day-beard kisses. Oh! the three-day-beard kisses are something else entirely. Intense, demanding, manly in a way that makes John’s toes curl before Sherlock even lays a hand on him. The scratch of wire-like whiskers at the edges of John’s lips, like tiny electrical probes sending sparks down John’s spine.

The scruff brings out a different side of Sherlock, which brings out a different side of John. Sex with his scruffy lover is darker, almost violent. Instead of their normal give and take, it’s take and take and take some more, both of them wringing pleasure from the other until they’re utterly spent.

And after? After, John remembers who he is. He leads his exhausted lover to the ensuite, seats him on the closed toilet lid, and tenderly shaves his precious face.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on tumblr: iriswallpaper.tumblr.com


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